Poetry+-+Sweet+&+Salty

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Powerful Pen By Jo Dunlap

The gift, a simple pen The pen glides smoothly across the page, Loops lightly, skims the bottom line, never cross. The line lifts then returns swiftly, Marginal consciousness, lines become letters, Letters words, the combination of those spaces and words, Sentences evolve into pure imagination.

Characters who laugh and cry, Desire and disdain, Leap with triumph’s joy, Wallowing in defeat’s pity.

No longer just ink and pulp; Sculpture, living and breathing Creations which have //become// Enjoying the comforts of their own world Relating to ours prompting our compassion Differing to pique our lust for understanding Commanding both creator and the audience Escaping reality.

Molded plastic tube Charged with synthetic liquid Seeping steadily onto smooth surfaces, Store-bought sheaves of paper or machine-bound notebooks, How do these fabrications of industrialization Morph into entities that live and breathe Creating life?

Human imagination.

Grasping tools Slowly life begins. Change Fix up, Elaborate upon, Take off on tangents Possessor of the pen Cannot foresee or control.

The pen sprints across the page, Lifts and scratches, crossing lines and words. The lines intersect and wind effortlessly, Without conscious regard for the next, No distinction between thoughts and text Beauty is not the objective, Yet it is.

Creation is beautiful Story, brought to life Inanimate object Imagination of individual IS creation- pure in form. Influenced by environment Imagination and experience

No less marvelous Late March mornings’ bright yellow daffodil Mist rising over a mountain lake Sun peeking over snow-crested mountaintops.

Who we are What we are becoming Powerful ability Molding thought Express through instruments Influence of improvisation Jazz musicians, choreographers, and coaches All call plays at third and long Eight seconds left on clock.

Desire to become, More than the present, Gifts we have been given.

The pen; a powerful gift. _ “A Double Tribute to William Carlos Williams”

By Jeff H. Roper

“Part One: This is Just to Say in 2009”

I’m sorry honey that I shared with my writing group that we were $41,000 in debt.

You probably did not want to publicize that information.

Forgive me, but laughing about our debts was so helpful to me. It was like eating a cold plum.

“Part Two: Sprinkler System”

So much depends on a working water sprinkler system beside the canary-colored day lillies.



By Amanda L. Carter
 * Family Reunion**

Aging A generation no longer in focus Not in the times nor out of them Nestled in between yearning for more And wanting less, Content

Watching Children grow, marry, and multiply Generations of hopes Passed from parent to child Until realized or reborn In grandchildren

Slowing Down mind to make up for body Aches and pains for some Worse for one Evident and undeniable We pray

Passing Too soon Too tired to fight Too content to let go Riddled with guilt for inflicting the pain Of absence

Pausing We check the number Remember those that are missing And absorb the impact of a hole Empty to the living of both generations Only to be filled by the next –

At another family reunion.

**Esther’s Grandma, Linda**

Linda, My new friend, Servant of God's people, Follower in Faith.

Saved from Death by Grace, Loved back to health and life By daughters' devotion,  And God's healing herbs.

Called back to life and service, By the needs of those beloved Aging parents, grandchildren born and unborn, And daughters unwilling to let her depart.

Linda, My new friend, Servant of God's  people. 

**Cathedrals** by Meg Rice  Upon this land Long ago Frank Lloyd Wright Brought to life A teaching - learning cathedral. He married artistic line to structure, Envisioned strong vertical and horizontal planes, Graceful curves and a cloud piercing spire. Wright believed he’d built a masterpiece, But I wonder…?

Upon this land also began Construction by another hand. A single twitchy red squirrel Initiated a wooden structure. Not by design or forethought But by his very nature, that lone squirrel Planted one fat nut into earth’s cold storage.  Seed to sprout, sprout to sapling, sapling to tree; A shady canopy grew of brown, emerald, and blue. A week of lessons in both places To listen, think, to write and share. I much enjoyed the learning spaces Frank Lloyd Wright left for us there. But today the old tree called me out From inside bricks and steel and glass,“ Come rest your mind in my cool shade; Relax your bones upon soft grass.” Of the two cathedrals standing here, It is the squirrel’s I hold most dear.  by Meg Rice
 * Trout Lake Trail**

Once again we retreat into self-restoration on familiar trout hatchery trails. Dancing Aspens cast green spotlights onto deeply-worn, leaf-strewn paths. The soles of our boots enjoy the contrasts beneath them as they find Cold smooth granite, soft moist earth and slippery grizzled tree roots. Forward progress halts as we gather gold and green heart-shaped leaves. Climbing higher than oxygen in thin mountain air, crisp breezes, born of Lodge-Pole-Pines, embrace our heated efforts to reach the summit. Spillways announce layers of lakes as our ascent continues. Deep cold waters ringed in pines and granite boulders Mirror the cotton wisp clouds in a blue-jay-feathered sky. Within this healing realm, our energy rises, our cares fall away and our Worries must wait at the trailhead or take a hike and trouble us no more.

Kitties and Kids Teralyn Cohn - picture of cat should be attached

Dirty fingers sticky and sweet Reach to pet the kitty on the street. There is a chemical attraction that lingers Between soft fur and sticky fingers.

Kitty sprawls in the shade And Pitiful Mews are made. Drawing youngsters like a magnet This relationship never grows stagnant.

The fluffy feline reclines in their path Giving itself a tongue lashing bath. Oh, if fingers could only be so clean But instead get wiped on sleeves and jeans.

Sticky fingers seek cat fluff; it's meant to be Memories and friends are made you see. Sticky hands keep the memory fresh longer The sensory message makes it stronger.

Kitties and kids in backyards and on streets At museums and on farms, oh what a treat. Meows and purrs, giggles and squeals Childhood partners making love real.

1880's Schoolhouse vs 21st Century Classroom Teralyn Cohn

One room, all grades One room, one subject Rows of desks Collaborative groups Political decor Vibrant critical thinking posters

Blackboard SMARTBoard Slates and chalk Pencils and Paper Hooks at the back Lockers for each Desks made of wood and iron Tables or composite desks

Wooden Pump Organ MP3 player and CD's Bell on a rope Bell on the Intercom Recess outside Gym down the hall 38 stars to recite the pledge 50 stars silent respect

Thirsty learners Students and Teachers Limited Resources Fertile Future.

 The Lease By Jonette Shuja

We signed your lease no pets allowed.

The cat was cold and hungry the temperature zero.

We whistled the cat came devoured chocolate cake.

You brought a buyer apartment building for sale.

You and the buyer saw the box mother cat and tiny kittens.

You are worried the lease ends soon no renewal signed.

 Sisters by Lynda Wasser

She stands behind the chair Victorian Regal as a queen. Her hair a waterfall Below her waist, Thick and glorious, A raven crown. Her olive skin And Native eyes, A stoic beauty, but Her rosebud lips Refuse to smile.

Her sister rides The chair, a picture Of Humility. Her hair is fine, And sheltered in a Pompador. Her features thin, Complexion fair, Her moon-shaped face And English eyes demure. Her thin lips curl As if to imitate a smile, Her sister's image opposite.

I search into their faces, Their souls I long to see. Comingled blood my heritage --Which one of them is me?

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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);">North-side Summer By Casey Christofferson

Downing beers and fresh mojitos Foam bat baseball and bocci ball Played in my shaggy front yard Little fires heat big meals Squirt guns and water balloons splat All big laughs as the music blasts Neighbors’ //Tejano// duels classic rock Other tunes are //Crunked and Chopped// Hillbilly neighbors explode garbage cans Illegal fireworks, count their hands Pocket bikes race day and night Bugs buzz, sting and bite Scowl at thugs, while charring meats Not far away sirens shriek Helicopter dives and sweeps At sunset the drinks take effect Arguments start between the sets Threats and shouts calling them out Kids get inside, get down hide! Nines pop and tires screech Cops NEVER show don’t you know? Music plays on and games resume Never saw it, party on Nothing going on! The usual drama It’ll be the same thing tomorrow Yo man! Es mi barrio!

GREAT-GRANDMOTHER MARY BY Jonette Shuja Mary Wyndham Romig My great-grandmother.

Never in the flesh did we meet Internally, we are well acquainted.

Hair knotted up Hatless with wisps feathering out.

Blouse with high collar Brooch clasped at neck.

Wrist-length puffed sleeves Wide skirts flutter in the wind.

Married to Lonnie in Kansas Migrated to Oklahoma after the run.

Long, hard wagon jouney “Lonnie, a flowing stream is here, let’s stay.”

Winter cold and bitter Wagon and cover the only shelter.

Spring weather allows house construction Several neighbors help with saw and nail.

Crops of wheat and hay are grown Cows bought to form a herd.

Family roots put down Fodder for generations to come.

Wash day toil, hard and long Watching baby, nearby, hypnotized with play.

Hanging clothes on the line Hurtles to save baby from an alluring snake.

Alone while Lonnie travels Armed, Mary can shoot a gun straight.

Nighttime brings a prankster Notions of fun abandoned with Mary’s first shot.

Great-grandmother Mary gone before I arrived Grit and determination I inherited.

<span style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);">**Daniel** By Liz Peterson

Quiet boy Smile gracing his lips Competitive spirit Born leader Talented musician Future architect Dreamer of adventures Somewhere else to go

So many left behind Dreams lost Family broken Hearts longing Music Silenced Memories treasured Tell we meet again Farewell

Outside Gill’s Mortuary Jennifer Wolff

Signs of sorrow everywhere drapes on doors and windows— black for adult, white for child the parlor dressed for viewing.

The widow’s cap and black lace veil signs of isolation wide black borders on a page shouting depths of loss.

Rules of mourning, timelines for grief, rituals prescribed for comfort promise passage through death’s dark vale but offer merely empty hope.

Conventions inflict only a mask blunting sharp edges and pain— despair protected, yet unaddressed draping not windows, but souls.

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);">**My Backyard** Jennifer Wolff

I like sitting outside on a clear night around the fire when it’s blazing popping and then glowing with coals ready for hotdogs marshmallows popcorn and pie dies* with family and friends sharing lives identifying stars and wishing that nights like this weren’t so few and far between


 * ”Pie dies” are made with two pieces of bread, buttered on the outside, stuffed with pie filling, and grilled in a cast iron sandwich press over coals.

<span style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);">Autumn Receding by Steve Maack [Format Note: the line "I can breathe now" should be indented as if it's a continuation of the previous line, but I do want the blank line between the stanzas still. I couldn't get wikispaces to do this.]

Each breath of grayish wind brings yellow & brown to earth: swirling currents of rattling leaves that carry the rusty, sweet breath of autumn. December’s steely blade waits for November to pass, but today, time offers a reprieve.

I can breathe now, though I must adapt to the chill that lurks beyond autumn’s threshold. Winter’s fingers hold my wrist, tease the underside of my chin, and I pull back into the delusion that I might delay what must come.

<span style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);">Transition by Steve Maack

If I think about a man who jumps forty stories to achieve his own end, I imagine the fear that must crystallize, like film over his eyes or sugar in his blood— a fear not of death, which is a release, an end point, //fait accompli//— but from the falling: flailing limbs, gasping for breath, a wild and sickening spin of the torso punctuated by unfocused glimpses of glass windows, encroaching asphalt, and open sky. What is this leap but a transition, a momentary loss of control? And where am I now if not falling, flailing, seeking the hard resolution of the street below?

<span style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);">Wichita Triptych by Steve Maack

I. Prairie Spirit

The spirit of this place looms high above the plains, a high-rise steeple that punctures big sky, but it’s miles from my reach and recedes when I approach.

Even if I were to catch it in a vain desire to take part, I would not be invited inside. Perhaps I’ll wait here resting in prairie grasses

and study the steeple as it sinks out of its height to surround then subsume the prairie and me, where it might find my open heart and work its way in.

II. Traffic

On the urban plains, where gray streets lie in window-pane plaid cut occasionally by the wrinkle of a river, everything at right angles to everything else,

our vehicles are the primary social currency. Agrarian self-reliance tells us never to take the bus and that sooner or later a truck will come in handy to help us haul something.

III. 11th & Bitting

When the nights are warm & wet enough that sweat beads on our iced drinks, we hover beneath the shadowy recess of our porch, quiet & reverent, the stage of the street lit by municipal lamp. At the shop next door, underneath the din of roaring cicadas, chrome bikes rumble, and singing resonates to thrummed guitars while the caffeinated laughter and chatter of summer leisure resound in the thick humidity of sultry night air.

<span style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);">** “Chicago” **
 * Rod Valdez **


 * I like meeting new family members **
 * Though there aren’t too many I haven’t met **
 * The summer of “84” **
 * I wasn’t sure what to expect **
 * Anxiety and uncertainty **
 * Sixteen years old **
 * My first train ride **
 * Listen to my story unfold **
 * We share the same name **
 * Our skin copper brown **
 * But we are strangers **
 * Because he wasn’t around **
 * He looks like me or **
 * Do I look like him **
 * His frame is thick **
 * My frame is thin **
 * We share the same laugh **
 * We both like to eat **
 * Standing side by side **
 * Both of us over six feet **
 * So much in common **
 * This man and I so much alike **
 * During our first visit **
 * Damn near had a fight **
 * Two stubborn bulls **
 * Rod and myself **
 * Glad I finally met him **
 * Even if the visit not heartfelt **
 * _ **

"Mother"

Rod Valdez

<span style="text-align: center; line-height: 115%; display: block; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 12pt;"> <span style="text-align: center; line-height: 115%; display: block; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16pt;"> The seed of life has been planted Unconditional love for a lifetime A seed that anticipates April showers The internal soil protects and helps grow

The garden of life has many precious gifts Requiring attention to nurture and strength to protect A giver until the end of all seasons Sacrificing without limits, for the seed the reason

The diffused liquid of life brings showers of hope and joy Spreading wealth within the hidden garden The waves rough and smooth, the current will sustain Just hold on tight, don’t let go, temporary the pain

The petals of life open to bloom With tenderness and love tiny tendrils to be groomed Pulled out of the darkness and into the light Delicate petals on a journey reach for the sky

The flower of life now stands on its own Amazing, the seed once young now grown Taking chances and risks, not knowing the way A lesson to the flower, the gardener knows the way

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<span style="font-family: Georgia,serif; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);"> Upon Visiting an Old Time Cowtown Patrick Kennedy

I’ve been here before, I’m almost certain, So much is familiar though the scene is new. I’m looking through a finely veiled curtain Into a place and time that once I knew.

I’ve worn those boots before, I remember the feel Of sandy streets that crunched under my feet. I’ve heard the clang of steel against steel Whilst the lumber sidewalk sounded a steady beat.

I’ve seen this town before, I’m almost sure, Listened to the common folk of a simpler time, Been enraptured by a small town’s allure. Though I know not how these memories are mine.

I’ve toiled in these fields before, I believe it’s true, Though amongst the crops I’ve never been. Beneath my nails I feel dirt and morning dew From plowing, weeding, and seeding again and again.

I’ve heard every sound I hear, seen every sight I see. It seems a farce, but the thought I can’t control. Perhaps I’ve not lived this life that’s in front of me Merely some part within that lingers in my soul.

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by Tom Leahy
 * Candy Bars**

Candy Bars at the Farm After lunch from Grandpa Shinn If you are polite say May I and Please

Eat Hersheys and Snickers and Butterfingers too

Oh No! not Reeses Peanut Butter cups You know what the cook will do!!

On Monday with nuts

On Tuesday without

On Wednesday Milk Chocolate

And Thursday some Mounds

Come Friday You're sick of them

till Monday starts new Then Please and Thank You

3 Musketeers will do! _

by Tom Leahy
 * The Writer**

Chubby little fingers, struggling for a grip. Awkwardly causing the boy to bite his lower lip.

as he guided the boy’s hand, holding comfortably his pencil proudly letting it stand.**
 * He was gentle yet firm

With eyes wide open the boy said with glee "Look teacher! "I made the perfect e.”

for the boy who struggled so "I knew you could do it" said the teacher with a glow**
 * Holding back his joy

They made no sense no sense at all. All these jumbled letters just made him feel so small.

like a bear to his cub. "let's take it slowly you can do it Bub"**
 * Sensing his frustration,

Slowly he could see it. The letters that he heard. "S- A- T that spells sat" the boy's glorious first word.

the teacher thought with a sigh. He felt like a big brother to this little guy.**
 * "What a relief."

He tried to put words together, to make sense of it all. He struggled mightily and had little recall.

upon the boy who struggled so "I've got an idea come on boy let's go"**
 * With eyes like an eagle,

Since his teacher showed him, that library by his house. His mom just can't believe it, as he reads quietly as a mouse

the little boy he knew. The teacher became the admirer as his writing skills grew.**
 * His words have started flowing,

They say I'm quite a writer, the folks at Random house. He wishes he could see him, feeling sorrow for his spouse.

says his widow looking sad “You know he loved you dearly like the son he never had.”**
 * “He bragged about you often”

His teacher was like a big brother. He was always there. He gave him the gift of writing. The man with unending care. <span style="font-family: Georgia,serif;"> _

<span style="font-family: Georgia,serif;">Mackenzie Jane
<span style="font-family: Georgia,serif; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);">by Sandy Foster

Mackenzie Jane A blessing from God above. Cherished and loved; a Kiss of life and hope; we are Enamoured by the Nuances of your sweet face. Zillions of dreams lie In your future and Every one of them is possible.

Jubilance Abounds with each New accomplishment, and Every day we thank God.

Moments of joy Captured on film Inviting Laughter, love, and tears. Varied conversations Announce your entry Into this world as the Newest member of the family. _

<span style="font-family: Georgia,serif;">By Sandy Foster
<span style="font-family: Georgia,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);"> Emotionally bruised and battered, spirit broken, beaten down into shattered dreams, splintered relationships until any hope is crushed. Traumatized and betrayed by the very ones to whom I gave my trust. Split apart from my sisters, I feel alone, trampled in my own little corner with nowhere to turn. Fractured mind, distressed yet vacant. My soul cries out for help as I engrave the pain into my wrist. Slash, cut; swallow the tears. Are you really there, God? If so, why don't you love me? _

<span style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);">**Small Town Royalty** Patrick Kennedy It lies beyond the city’s urban charm, Shielded from roads by a phony forest grove Keeping the paths where tractors once drove It holds the olden look of a family farm.

From forthwith sprang town royalty A humble crop grown from simple seed Names known for honor and for deed And forever rooted in family loyalty.

Guided by Irish man and Mexican wife, Loving family and God as one and the same, Would be built a proud and noble name That would greatly affect a many a life.

Go tell the tales of these heroes homegrown Such noble light let shine in the world Let your own noble spirit be unfurled Like them let your greatness be shown.

For they were simple men and women Each born entirely of simple birth, But what they’ve done on this good earth, Is greatness there has never been.

No ‘noble’ blood courses through their veins They are not remembered by great monument But those who happen to be of their descent Will forever hear of their mark on these Plains.

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<span style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);">By Sandy Foster
<span style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);"><span style="font-family: Georgia,serif; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);"> A person's surname is a coat of arms given to him at birth. Through generations from father to son it reveals a man's true worth. For a person is known throughout his world by the reputation he has earned. That name is known as evil or good according to the deeds he has turned. Your last name has been given to you and is one in which to take pride, for behind that name is a positive creed that should be your lifetime guide. Now before you judge too harshly the mistakes your father made, please value the lessons he taught you and learn from the price that he paid. He learned by default the great value of earning a college degree, and he had high expectations of you from the time you could sit on his knee. With the utmost respect for knowledge, his absolute greatest desire was for his son to go to college and not be stuck in Life's muck and mire. Like his father and grandfather before him, he sacrificed much at great cost just trying to earn a living, not realizing how much time he had lost. And the patriarchs of the family knew the importance of working hard: "A job worth doing is worth doing right"; against mediocrity never let down your guard. You must choose your friends carefully, both plain folk and those of renown, knowing that friends are like hot air balloons; they will help you up or bring you down. You were bequeathed this noble gift and all that it represents. Now upholding the value of your last name is your inheritance. _

By Sandy Foster
 * His Harmony Heals Discord**

Discordant notes of anger and hatred filter through the Song of Life, creating a cacophony of noise, interfering with the cadence of love and respect. The harmony of old plays in the background, laughter and smiles a distant drumbeat to the clamor of fear and pain. The clanging cymbals of insolence reverberate louder and faster until the Song of Life takes on a darker tone, a dirge whose chorus wails a plaintive call for rest; silence in the measures of prayers for peace.

The melody slows, the drumbeats soften, and the peaceful tones of safety and adoration return. With a sudden crescendo of strength and power, the lyrics of His Word bring comfort and joy, and the refrain of the Song of Life repeats: Blood of the Son spilled out for me, sins forgiven by His holy grace. When He died on that cross, He set me free, eternal life for all who believe, eternal life for all who believe.

_

By Sandy Foster
 * Forgiveness Heals Your Soul**

Anger and bitterness, over time, become cancers that feed on your soul, slowly destroying compassion, love, and self-respect until all that remains is the empty shell you once were, unhappy, lonely, and defensive.

Pride hardens our hearts and binds our lips, killing us slowly as it destroys what once was virtuous and honorable. "I'm sorry", the two words which restore and heal, so seldom used, and often insincerely. "I forgive you", the therapeutic power that heals relationships. _

By Sandy Foster
 * Firm Foundation on Shaky Ground**

Alone I stand in the center of my house built of dreams. As each year passes, another wall crumbles until self-doubt and depression are the only guests in the empty chambers of my heart. The world around me continues to spin, but my feet remain cemented in place. Exposed to the rain of tears that floods my soul, I cry out to the heavens in search of the Carpenter who will rebuild these walls, One who will recognize the firm foundations of love and compassion, intelligence and wit -- One who will restore the walls of happiness and joy and fill the rooms with family and friends. I pray that the Carpenter who miraculously healed the multitudes will heal this broken heart and reconstruct my house of dreams by sending someone of faith to share its many rooms. _ <span style="font-family: Georgia,serif;">

<span style="font-family: Georgia,serif; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);">**Grandpa's Back Yard** Teralyn Cohn

Summers as a child. Blissful days in Manhattan, Kansas. One week staying with the grandparents- three sets. Great Grandpa's was the best. The live minnow well digging for worms fishing. Fish fertilized garden feeds the fragrance 7 sisters roses K State Iris lavender lilacs flowering quince bachelor buttons peonies. Crabapple tree fruit raining into the boat where we pretended to be at sea in the middle of the prairie.

<span style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);"> The Arena //for my students upon their high school graduation// by Steve Maack

Your successes and failures have been measured from the circumference of your life’s arena. But the routines by which you are judged all end today:

You awakened every morning in the dark. You tried to stretch in your cage. But motivation alone would never set you free. You followed the trail of flaming hoops, and you jumped through each one— gracefully sometimes to please the crowd, but grudging, grumpy and resentful, cowed by the tamer’s rules.

Now your route through burning circles, is obscured by smoke and flashing lights. So you must set your own path and choose your own tricks to perform. Tear the whip from the tamer’s hand! Claw the whistle from his mouth! Swat the legs of his chair aside until you tell him what to do!

In the wild, your survival is measured by the plenty of your prey, by the power of your pride, by imposition of your will— and everyone secretly wants to be watching that day you knock the trainer down and growl: “Enough! This is my arena now.”

<span style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);"> A Teacher's Apology, after William Carlos Williams by Steve Maack

This is just to say I had to fail your senior in English class who despite his claims to the contrary and his best intentions seldom came to class.

I know you spent at least four hundred dollars on useless graduation supplies— t-shirts and key chains, mousepads and coffee mugs all emblazoned with a year your family will recall with resentment for years to come a year that will never represent the pride you should be feeling as your now-bitter gaze falls on the blue and white tassel the year golden, embossed mocking your family because of a single unearned English credit.

And while his relatives who drove five hours to be here for the ceremony weren’t told until after they arrived that your son would not walk across the stage or receive a diploma I am sure they will understand that summer school might do the trick and he will I am quite certain earn more than the twenty-three percent he had in my class the spring of his senior year.

Please rest assured I have thoroughly forgiven him for the time he called me a punk-ass faggot before slamming the classroom door on his way to the office the one day he had come to class in that particular two-week stretch and that incident had no bearing whatsoever on his grade I assure you.

And in five or six years when I see him filling his car with gas at the Quiktrip I will greet him shake his hand ask after you his work his new wife and his daughter before I drive away and decide that everything really can turn out all right in the end.